Over the next few weeks, the intensity of Mallory and Kyle's relationship began to develop; each day she felt more compelled to submit to his every whim and desire. Even though she did not exactly feel like her life was going to parallel "O's" and Sir Stephen, where her hero would eventually fall in love with her, she still believed she would find her happily ever after.
Mallory discounted the mounting feeling of disaster, instead concentrating on the positive path they seemed to be travelling together. True, it appeared she had spent more time on the receiving end of his lectures and the sting of his belt, and she was somewhat unclear what she was going to get out of this supposed two-way relationship, when she was honest with herself, she was lonely. She knew she was a slave, from deep down in the pit of her stomach, and inside her battered and abused heart, she wanted to submit.
So, when Kyle came to her several weeks into her training and casually said, "Mal, either we are going to do this or we aren't," no excitement or love in his voice, the tone was his usual affect, just like he was ordering a Big Mac from McDonald's. "I'm done playing games. Let's get your stuff and you can move back into my house, you can move this weekend."
When the corners of Mallory's mouth started to turn up, in a smile, she started to speak in her rushed and excited tone, "Oh, Kyle, I'm so..."
However, Kyle cut her off before she could finish, "You aren't bringing all your junk back into my house, though," he announced dismissively, "you can bring your clothes. The paintings, the other garbage you have, it has to go."
The smile that had previously started to grace Mallory's lips slowed faded, "Yes, Master," she responded emptily, using the term he had demanded. She had finally learned to say the word he wanted, though she felt nothing when she said it, or wrote it for that matter.
By the following weekend, Mallory had tidily packed up the few belongings she was permitted to keep and had brought them to her Master's home, the home she used to share with him. It looked the same, in some ways; in others it was utterly different. The house was no longer "their house", it was his; the cars were his, the bank account was his, essentially anything with a financial tie was his; although she still had to continue working and contribute her paycheck.
As Mallory looked around the house, she drew in a deep breath, afraid to breathe out, she was nervous. It was her first night back at the house and Kyle had gone out, leaving her there to get settled in; she knew better than to think he might be out arranging a romantic surprise. She was right; he returned a few hours later, "I'm back, Mal," he called, poking his head in through the door from the garage, "come help me unload the truck. He had been to the hardware store and had purchased supplies because he had been remodeling the living room.
"So, I finally sold my last painting," Mallory revealed, as she helped him carry sheetrock into the garage, "you know, the Fabien Perez."
"Oh, you sold those things?" he looked at her quizzically, "I thought we would be hauling them to the dump. They were nothing but junk."
Mallory tried her best to hide her pain over having to sell her prized possessions, "I thought you'd be happy, they were actually worth a lot. Maybe we can take a weekend trip to San Francisco or something, since it's like found money."
